Return of the Outlaw by C. M. Curtis

of the house. He peered around a corner of the shed and saw Healy coming toward him a hundred feet away. He needed a weapon. The tools from the shed had been stacked against the front wall of the structure and he reached around carefully and felt the wooden handle of a shovel. He slid it toward him and around the corner, praying Healy wouldn’t notice.
    Healy drew his pistol as he pulled the long nail from the hasp that secured the door of the shed. He had just opened the door when there was a sound behind him and he wheeled. Jeff swung the shovel with all his strength , heedless of the pain it caused him. It struck Healy full in the face, knocking him back into the shed. Jeff followed him in and thrust the shovel handle into the man’s belly, at the same time stomping his boot on the hand that held the gun. These last acts were unnecessary. Healy was unconscious. His broken nose gushed blood, and if he was breathing Jeff could see no evidence of it. Nor did he care. There was no time for such concerns. He bent down to pick up Healy’s gun and the world began to whirl around him. He dropped to his knees, groping for the gun, unwilling to waste even the small amount of time it took for his vision to clear and his equilibrium to return. He holstered the pistol, and once again forced himself to his feet. Nausea washed over him like a current, and his expensive town dinner came out onto the ground. The vomiting caused so much pain in his ribs he could not suppress a groan, but afterwards he felt a little better from having emptied his stomach.
    Jeff folded Healy ’s legs up so that his entire body was inside the shed and closed the door, replacing the nail in the hasp. Now he needed a horse.
    The old mare he had ridden from town was standing at the hitching rail in front of the house. She was not a good pick but she was still saddled. There were better horses in the corral and pasture, but he would have to catch one of them. Moreover, he was in no condition to ride bareback, and even if he could afford the time to saddle another horse, he had serious doubts about his ability to do so in his present condition. Soon his attackers would wonder what had delayed Healy and would come to investigate. There was no other option; he would have to ride the old mare.
    At least now he had a gun. Holding it in his hand he approached the mare, walking on unsteady legs. His first two attempts to lift himself into the saddle we re unsuccessful. The second was nearly disastrous, the exertion almost causing him to pass out. But finally he made it and  sat there for a long moment, his head bowed, fighting to stay conscious and erect. He knew he had no time for this, but neither could he afford to faint and fall out of the saddle. He swung the mare’s head around and spurred her forward.
    He would not take the trail; that would make it too easy for Fogarty and his men to follow, and his pursuers, being of sound body, would be able to ride hard and soon overtake him. Instead, he would head out into the desert where he knew every rabbit trail, hill and gully. They would be forced to track him, and even on a bright night like this one, tracking would slow them down.
    He walked the m are out of the yard, knowing that if he ran her, the hoof beats would alert his enemies. He kept the pistol in his hand and watched the ranch buildings over his shoulder. As he passed under the shadow of a tree he saw the door of the house open and the broad figure of Fogarty emerge and walk toward the shed. Jeff faced forward now and quickened the mare’s pace. Soon he would be out of earshot of the house but he knew he couldn’t cling to the saddle or to consciousness if he tried to push the mare too fast.
    Fogarty opened the door of the shed, standing t o one side with his gun drawn—he was a cautious man. Healy was lying where Jeff had left him. Fogarty swore and aimed a vicious kick at the recumbent man’s ribs. Healy opened his eyes and blinked, awake but